


Not Sick

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Hospitals, M/M, TOPFL October Challenge, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 02:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: Bites are fatal unless they're amputated in a timely manner.





	Not Sick

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween!

Tyler gets bit as he's reaching over to grab a tissue to wipe a patient's snot from his face. The patient in question is behind him, a mess of sniffles and wrinkled tissues in her fists. She shakes these tissues, her little white flags of surrender an apology as the voice that leaves her is deflated, hoarse, and not meant to be heard by anyone.

After she sneezed on him, Tyler pat her elbow, told her, "Don't worry about it, okay? It's not the worst thing that's happened to me today," and turned. On the nightstand, next to the other patient bed, the tissue box looked empty, but Tyler still stretched out, fingertips ready to dig and pluck out the soft, medicated cloth, and he spied the patient in this bed reach forward, too, from the corner of his eye. "Here," Tyler said, snot on his face no longer a problem. He could use his shoulder, his shirt sleeve, if it meant his patient was comfortable.

Tyler waited, and Tyler waited, and then Tyler watched pale hands take his forearm and yellow teeth sink into his skin.

This patient who has bitten him came in with an ache in his stomach and a fever, much like everybody else on the floor who got admitted within the past hour. Tyler didn't remember what it felt like to sit down or breathe when he bounced from room to room. The emergency room was reaching occupancy, but he couldn't say no, couldn't stop himself from taking temperatures and producing pain medicine and promising they'll get more help soon.

And now, Tyler's watching one of his patients gnaw on his arm.

The gnawing isn't something that exactly causes Tyler to worry—biting isn't something he keeps out of the bedroom—but what worries him is the patient himself, gazing at Tyler with dark circles, black gums, and eyes the color of milk. Cataracts, Tyler reasoned when he first inspected the patient. An elderly man, he had his son with him, but Tyler doesn't remember where the son said he was going when he left the room a few minutes ago.

Tyler stands there, the patient grinding his teeth into Tyler's arm, and then—oh,  _yeah_ —Tyler realizes this isn't  _normal_.

When he yanks his arm from the patient's mouth, the patient's jaw clenches, and the top layer of skin on Tyler's forearm scrapes away like a fork against a dinner plate. He holds up his arm, to his chest, and grabs the tissues—what little there are—and sticks it on the wound. The pressure is minimal now, but when Tyler pulls the sleeve of his thermal underneath his scrub top over the tissues, it becomes a little better.

The patient chews, Tyler's arm hair hanging from his mouth.

Slowly, Tyler turns on his feet, arms over his chest, hiding the bite. He'll get it cleaned up. He'll tell the other nurses about the patient's tendency for biting, and everything will be just fine.

The woman in the bed over draws Tyler in closer with a weak flick of her wrist. "Did you get tissues?" she asks, one eye open and bright blue. She hadn't seen a thing, too exhausted. She speaks in a whisper, crumpled tissues still in her fists. "I would let you have these," she whispers, voice like static, "but you'll probably get sick like me."

Tyler pats the crook of her elbow again. "I'll be back to check on you in an hour."

She closes her eyes.

And Tyler, after dropping off patient charts, runs to the nearest bathroom.

All the stalls are occupied, but that means nothing to him as he yanks up his sleeve, the gray fabric already staining, pitches the bloody tissues in the nearest bin, and lets a stream of lukewarm water run over his hands and forearm. A little drenched, Tyler tugs out a paper towel from the dispenser and begins applying pressure to the wound. Blood surfaces. Blood surfaces even after Tyler reapplies pressure with a new paper towel. He raises his arm to the ceiling, elevation good, but maybe this is too much elevation. His reflection looks ridiculous, both arms raised, one hand holding the paper towels in place with his face turning red, his eyes shining, and the sweat marks under his arms darkening. He's thankful for his navy-blue scrub top.

Snot dries on his face. He'll deal with that later.

He lowers his arms and procures more paper towels. Old ones in the bin and new ones on his skin, Tyler's head never stops moving from one thing to the other. He even glances at the toilet stalls in the mirror, all doors still shut and no sounds emerging. The feet sticking from the bottom of the stalls are still.

The bleeding stops. Tyler whispers his gratitude to the sink, bending low to cup water into his palms and splash his face.

With another tug to the paper towel dispenser, Tyler leaves the bathroom with arms over his chest and walking as nonchalantly as possible to the nearest supply closet. It isn't far, and no one notices him slip inside due to the chaos in the halls. Tyler hears the familiar beeping of healthy individuals, and then the yelling associated with a not-so healthy individual, where a crash cart rolls into the room, where young kids are escorted out by close relatives.

Tyler can hear crying in his struggle to pull out a first-aid kit without putting any weight on his bad arm. Breath caught in his throat, Tyler keeps it there to hold himself steady during the disinfection process. The wound burns, but it doesn't begin bleeding again. That's good.

"That's good," Tyler says, and drapes a sterile gauze pad over the bite mark. He wraps it up afterward, like a present, like everything's fine. With shaky hands, Tyler places a painkiller under his tongue, replaces the first-aid kit on the shelf, tugs down his sleeve to hide the dressing, and exits the closet.

At the nurses' station, Tyler takes a drink from his water bottle and swallows the pill. He wills himself to feel better from this one swallow.

*

The sun is rising when Tyler comes home. Josh is in bed, blinking slowly and welcoming Tyler into his arms once Tyler changes clothes and gives his face a proper wash with sensitive moisturizer.

Tyler wears his yellow sweatshirt and Josh's cheek on his head. He plays with the strings of his hoodie.

Josh asks, "Did you have a good night?"

"It was okay."

Tyler's eyes burn when he shuts his eyes.

*

Before Josh leaves to go to work, he presses his lips to Tyler's forehead and lingers. He slides his lips down to Tyler's cheek, Tyler's chin, and then up—a quick peck to the corner of Tyler's mouth. "I'll grab some dinner after I get off," he says, fingers running through Tyler's hair. "Do you have any preferences?"

Tyler shakes his head.

Josh kisses Tyler's temple. "I love you."

"Be careful," Tyler says.

Josh works, and Tyler sleeps.

*

Tyler wakes to a migraine and Josh's lips to his forehead. It's as if Josh had never left; however, low light outside and the smell of rain clinging to Josh's jacket is evident enough that time has passed.

Josh's eyes never waver as Tyler forces himself to uncurl from his ball and sit slouched against the headboard. Once Tyler sits, Josh picks up Tyler's legs and carefully moves them aside to make room for himself. His own legs join. He isn't wearing shoes.

"Feeling okay?" Josh asks.

"Headache," Tyler says. On the nightstand, the digital clock blinks red. He rubs his eyes.

Josh sets his hand on Tyler's knee, palm radiating a pleasant warmth through Tyler's pajama bottoms. "I could tell you weren't feeling well when you came home, so I went to the store and got some soup. We didn't have any in the pantry." Josh mumbles, "Alphabet soup."

Tyler leans forward. His head falls, his cheek to Josh's shoulder. When he closes his eyes, Josh's arms wrap around him. A hand cups the back of Tyler's neck, the other on his hip. "I'll put it in a cup or something. Straw. You can drink it in bed. You still have a few hours before your shift, yeah?" Josh massages.

Tyler bites the inside of his cheek.

Josh says, "Rest a bit. I'll get some ibuprofen."

"Thank you."

A kiss on Tyler's ear, Josh whispers into it, "It's no big deal."

Parting with a short kiss to each other's mouths, Tyler settles down under the covers. The blankets return to his chin, his arms return under his torso, and he returns to lying on his stomach with his legs curled just so. It's cramped and comfortable, and Josh sits next to him with an ibuprofen and a thermos of soup. Josh sets the pill on Tyler's tongue and pokes the metal straw at his lips.

Tyler suckles as if he were a hamster.

A hand to Tyler's head, fingers beginning to massage again, Josh tells him, "I'll do the laundry tonight, and I'll clean the tub so you can take a bath when you come home."

Tyler looks up at Josh.

Josh thumbs his eyebrow.

Tyler closes his eyes, finishes his soup, and sleeps.

*

Josh knocks on the bathroom door and says, "Give me that sweatshirt when you're finished up in there. It smells like you've been wearing it for a year and a half."

A hum, an absent nod, Tyler does nothing to indicate he'll actually remove the hoodie. He shoves the sleeve up his arm, keeps it bunched around his elbow as he rummages inside the first-aid kit they keep in the medicine cabinet. It's small and not up to the standards as the ones in the hospital, but it's enough for Tyler.

He balances it on the sink. When he unwraps the old gauze around his forearm, his fingertips twitch and twitch, and Tyler doesn't know why digging his teeth into his cheek keeps him steady, but it keeps him steady. The trash bin stands guard at his feet, the lid set on the toilet so Tyler can allow the wrappings to unravel and drop inside the plastic shopping bag on their own accord. Still biting his cheek, Tyler inhales and does not release the breath. Peeling off the sterile pad is a slow process, one that shouldn't be rushed in fear blood might start flowing again. Despite this, despite how slow and how careful he thought himself to be, as soon as the sterile pad falls into the bin, the bite marks turn a brilliant red.

Tyler curses and grabs a washcloth from the linen closet. He moves quickly, dampening the cloth and applying pressure to the puncture wounds.

His skin, while bloody, is not as inflamed as Tyler expected it to be. It hurts. The blood hurts, too, when it pushes through the serrations and reminds Tyler that he was an idiot to keep this hidden.

"I can handle it," he whispers, rinsing the blood from the washcloth and reapplying it. " _I can handle it_."

Blood remains on the washcloth and only on the washcloth. Once the bleeding stops, Tyler disinfects the wound and bandages his arm like he bandaged it before. It's almost as if nothing has happened—and as far as Tyler is concerned,  _nothing has happened_. He's fine. He's absolutely fine.

He swallows another ibuprofen, just in case, and continues getting ready for work.

This time, Tyler's clothing features another thermal-and-scrub combo, but this time, the thermal is black, while his scrub top is yellow. He's straightening out the wrinkles on his way from the bathroom. His hand-flicking, it's done absently. He's more focused on Josh, on the bed, where Josh's legs swing and he smiles a bright smile.

"There's my little bumblebee," Josh says, despite Tyler rolling his eyes.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Tyler holds out the hooded sweatshirt, and Josh takes it. He presses it to his nose, Tyler frowning, telling him, "Come on, man," as Josh just breathes and breathes and says, "That's the good stuff."

"You can get the real thing right here," Tyler says, and Josh wastes no time in dropping the hoodie on his lap and pulling Tyler right on top of it. His nose is cold against Tyler's neck, cold to the point Tyler flinches.

At Tyler's body jerking away from him, Josh removes his hands from Tyler's waist. They hover for a moment, unsure, Josh staring at him. "Are you okay?" He touches Tyler's neck, the side of it, with his fingertips. The touch is feather-light, Josh's lips parting as he flips his hand around and lays the back of it to the side of Tyler's neck again. "You're a little warm."

"My skin just… feels weird."

Despite Tyler's rolling eyes again, Josh feels along Tyler's forehead.

Tyler says, "Josh," but Josh roams, his palm now to Tyler's skin, and he must not find anything too concerning, for he returns to Tyler's neck, slow this time, and breathes in deeply. The breath stays in Josh's chest, allowing Tyler a moment to slide his hands into Josh's hair.

"Josh," he whispers, and Josh whispers, "Tyler," and he kisses Tyler's neck. He doesn't stop kissing Tyler's neck.

"Can you drive me to work?" Tyler asks.

Josh hugs him. "Of course."

They stand silently, Josh still hugging Tyler once they're on their feet, Tyler's yellow hoodie trapped between them in this strange game of intimacy. Tyler grabs for it, hand going into the sleeve itself, and then he yanks, slinging it out from between their bodies and pressing it to Josh's face. Josh enjoys this brief suffocation.

Tyler smiles at the delighted coo Josh produces as Josh sniffs and snorts up the mustard threads of Tyler's too-worn hoodie. "You're ridiculous," Tyler says, stepping back to find his shoes. "You're ridiculous, and I can't believe I love you so much." He shoves into a second pair of socks before allowing his feet to rest inside his tennis shoes.

"Don't get sentimental on me," Josh tells him, turning to place the hoodie on the bed. He stretches it out, two arms out, the torso free of any wrinkles. A gentle pat to the chest, Josh says, "I may need to drop to my knee right here and take your hand in mine."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Tyler only smiles and laces up his shoes. Josh does the same, albeit Tyler needs to help him tie his shoes. It's okay. Tyler kisses Josh's cheek and gives him another hug. Josh lifts Tyler off his feet.

In the car, they listen to the radio, Josh's hand reached over to hold onto Tyler's thigh. His thumb rubs. He holds Tyler, just holds, and Tyler can't fathom why that makes him want to curl into a ball and phone his supervisor to let her know he isn't coming in this evening. It isn't plausible no matter how many different ways he tries to spin it. They need as much help as they can get; the emergency room was overrun Tyler's last shift. Tyler can't call out due to the simple fact he wants to stay inside the car with Josh's hand on his thigh forever.

The bite throbs under the bandage. Tyler touches it. It hurts. It doesn't hurt. It hurts too much.

Tyler closes his eyes.

The parking lot offers no spaces, so, mindful, Josh pulls out front and gives Tyler a short kiss to his mouth, then his cheek, then his nose—two kisses to Tyler's nose. "Have a good day." Josh's smile is made of stardust. It glows, blinds, and Tyler watches it diminish a fraction when he slides his fingers into Josh's hair and messes the curls atop his head.

"I'll try," Tyler says, and Josh's smile returns full force.

*

It happens as soon as Tyler steps into the emergency room. Before he can get situated, before he can say hello to his co-workers, before he can even  _breathe_ , his supervisor presses a scalpel into his hand and tells him, "You have to aim for the brain stem."

"The brain stem?" Tyler can feel his voice leaving as small as a child's. His eyes are huge to accompany this, chin quivering, too. He follows his supervisor through the halls, past nurses running, past doctors slapping on face masks, past family members screaming, and patients groaning and groaning and groaning. Tyler sees them all and wishes he cannot. He sees every tear, every hug, every frightened sniffle and shake. He sees and sees, and he wants to stop and hold everyone for just one minute. One minute is enough.

And yet, he's racing to follow his supervisor into a locked room at the end of the hall.

Turning the door knob, she says, "The brain stem, Tyler—remember that; you have to aim for the brain stem."

And then, she pushes the door open, and she and Tyler enter the room together.

It's like any other room—curtains closed for nighttime, the fake flowers on the nightstand as lively as ever, the patient in the bed. Tyler thinks nothing is amiss until the patient's head turns, and Tyler notices it's the man from yesterday, with the cataracts and the yellow teeth, the man who had bit Tyler and who is currently restrained to the bed and thrashing back and forth with more vigor than his aged body should allow. Along with the handcuffs rattling against the rails like loud wind chimes, the noises the patient makes raise the hair on the back of Tyler's neck. Tyler wants to place his hands over his ears, but he's holding a scalpel. He's holding a scalpel.

"What happened?" Tyler asks. He feels like an idiot for asking such a thing. He knows what this is and why he needs to aim for the brain stem. He's watched the TV shows, the movies. He's read the books and listened to the songs.

"He succumbed to complications of pneumonia. As soon as we went to notify the family, he started to move again. We isolated him as fast as we could for you to… to  _practice_." Methodical in tone, it all comes crashing down. Once confident in composure, his supervisor allows herself a moment of weakness as Tyler allows himself to do the same. He gazes upon the patient and hears nothing but his own heart thud in his chest.

Tightly clasping her hands together behind her back, she approaches the bed and does not flinch when the patient tries to grab for her. Handcuffs banging against the metal again, his arms don't even reach her waist. "He wasn't the first to die and turn," she says. "I don't know who was the first to die and turn. It all happened so fast. One of our doctors got bit. A patient bit two of her fingers right off. We're monitoring her now. So far, we think she might be okay. We stopped the bleeding in time." A pause, and she says, "She's been in contact with her family."

Tyler moves like a ghost across the room. His tennis shoes squeak once.

The patient gurgles, shoulders heaving, and then he's throwing himself to the other side of the bed, to where Tyler stands. Teeth yellow still, gums black, and everything comes together with a sickening gnash, a wet slurp, and a violent snap. This patient, he leans his head to the side, fingers twitching, and attempts to speak. No words of coherence form. He groans, groans, and groans some more. Tyler wonders if the groaning he heard before coming into this room are due to the same reason.

"How many patients have we had to… to…?" Tyler can't finish, can't even think. He shuts his eyes.

"Only three."

" _Only_  three."

"In total, we have had to…  _put down_  seven individuals. Those three patients reanimated and attacked nurses, a doctor, and they were bitten in places we could not amputate."

They have a well-established knowledge on this to perform amputations if needed. Everything is hypothetical. Everything is different in practice.

"We believe everybody who was admitted for flu-like symptoms in the past day was exposed to  _whatever_  has caused this," she continues. "We're doing our best to contain it so it doesn't spread beyond these walls. Tyler, you have to aim for the brain stem."

Tyler opens his eyes.

"It's your turn."

The patient looks up at him, those cataract-eyes milkier than yesterday, and when he opens his mouth to speak, he spits out a sound Tyler registers as a quiet "hi"; he knows this is foolish of him to think, but he thinks it anyway. He whispers, "Hello," and touches his palm to the patient's forehead.

At the touch, the patient heaves his chest and bites at the air. A tooth cracks from the force of his jaws. This doesn't stop him from performing this action again. He chomps the air, swallows the air, and he tries to grab at Tyler's arm, but the handcuffs are proficient at its job. Metal against metal, the sound grinds Tyler's teeth together as Tyler shifts his hand down a fraction. He hides the patient's eyes from view, his grip tightening to tilt the head away from him. Slow, Tyler needs to be slow. His supervisor watches, her hands behind her back again. Her face is pale, her lips dry, eyes shiny. Tyler imagines he looks much the same.

"I'm so sorry," Tyler says, and shoves the scalpel through the nape of the patient's neck. It slides in easily at first, the skin paper-thin. The muscles are tough, and the veins and nerves are a tangle. Tyler pushes. He pushes, all his weight in his hand.

He utters a small cry when he reaches the brain stem and suddenly hears the patient groan no more.

The mouth remains slack, the predator fingers stay curled, and the shoulders keep as tense as tense can be. Once Tyler removes his hand from the patient's face, he finds eyes staring with no light within them.

Tyler yanks out the scalpel and lets it drop on the bedsheet. He covers his face. He falls to his knees. He cries. He cries.

"Take as long as you need," he hears, his supervisor's shoes tapping along the floor as she rounds the bed. "We're going to need you out there. We need you to be strong." She helps him from the floor, dusting him off and nodding her head. He nods with her. "We don't know if we're going to be able to eradicate this tonight. We're aiming for the end of the week."

That's ambitious. That's hopeful.

"I will be strong," Tyler whispers, and sniffs. He almost believes himself.

*

An hour later, Tyler texts Josh,  _i killed two people tonight._

Josh types immediately.  _I saw on the news. Tyler, they aren't people anymore. When they died, the last traces of their humanity died with them._

And yet, Tyler sends,  _i killed two people tonight_ , and Josh replies,  _I love you so much. Keep me updated._

*

They all wear masks over their faces, goggles over their eyes. Nitrile gloves slide into place and along skin, holding down arms, holding down heads. Those fingers covered by the purple rubber wield scalpels that slide into necks and ear canals.

By midnight, Tyler has watched life dim into a bated flame more than fifteen times. He wishes he could lose count. He wishes he doesn't have to remember each patient he helped pass on to the next life.

The girl he's holding down is strong despite her size. She yelps like a dog. She clutches his arm.

A howl is her swan song.

He escapes to the supply closet after this. No one tries to stop him from fleeing the room.

Hiding among the paper towels and spiders, Tyler talks to Josh with his phone pressed to his ear and his voice muffled by the doctor's mask.

"I can't do this anymore. I just had to, to, to—Josh, it was a  _little girl_. She got bit by her  _mom_."

"Tyler—"

"Can you come get me?"

" _You can't run away_."

Tyler's arm hurts. It throbs beneath the bandaging, more so now than ever before. It needs a new dressing, a new application of ointment, some TLC. There's none of that in the supply closet, not anymore, not when they need to use the antibiotics and bandages to keep amputated limbs from getting infected. There are far better people than him who need the aid.

Slowly, Tyler pulls the sleeve of his thermal up to his elbow and brings his arm to his nose. He hates how it's his right arm, how he's fucking right-handed, but he's also relieved to see no blood has seeped through the gauze and the wound isn't reeking a horrible odor. If he's allowed to find solace in this, he can't be certain. It burns when he shuts his eyes, and the ache drilling away at his frontal lobe is nothing short of horrific. It even hurts to stand. He feels his knees pop and his hips crack, and he falls right back down, right back down with the paper towels and the spiders, and he whispers to Josh, "You don't know what it's like in here. You don't know what I've had to do."

"I don't, but— _Tyler_ —"

"Don't ' _but Tyler_ ' me. I just had to shove a scalpel into a little girl's head, Josh— _her head_. When you've done that, then you can talk to me about what I should and shouldn't do. Until then, shut the fuck up."

A beat of silence, and Josh says, "Tyler, one of the neighbors attacked me just a few minutes ago, and I still have their blood on my hands." He speaks this in a rush, like he's afraid of Tyler interrupting him, and Tyler sees no reason to doubt this theory. He had been brash, dismissive, and he never once considered Josh's own feelings nor never once thought of what might be happening outside the hospital.

Tyler chews on the inside of his cheek and tugs the sleeve of his thermal back down. He tugs and tugs to encompass his fist. "Are you… are you  _okay_? Did you—Josh—did you—?"

"I'm fine. Just a little shaken up."

Tyler's hand covers his mouth, the hand with the fabric over it. The added weight, especially with the surgical mask already over his mouth, contributes to the suffocating feeling that overwhelmed Tyler as he ran from the room of the now-dead little girl and her now-dead mother in the bed beside her. Seeing them lying there in their assigned beds, arms outstretched as if longing for a desired connection, it made Tyler want to weep and stomp his feet. This wasn't fair—to anyone.

"I'm not going to run away," Tyler murmurs into his phone's receiver. "I'm going to be strong."

"You're already strong."

Tyler leans his forehead against his knees and cries. Josh listens. Josh cries with him.

*

Tyler stops apologizing before he drives his scalpel into their brains.

It's not that he no longer feels any remorse when he does this; he's tired. He's  _tired_.

He thinks he might be running a fever.

*

The patient who sneezed on him the day before looks better now. She has her own box of tissues tucked between her body and arm. She's pulled out a tissue when Tyler checks on her, immediately smiling and immediately waving the tissue at Tyler, despite the mask hiding his normal friendly demeanor. "Hi!" Even her voice is better.

Stronger, full of purpose—she fights to sit up to greet Tyler properly, but Tyler tells her, "It's okay. You don't have to get up for little ol' me."

She laughs at this, and then obliges, returning to her bed with her fists grabbing more tissues before pointing a thumb at the empty bed across the room. "He bit someone." She blows her nose. "Can you believe it?"

"Did his son ever come back?"

She shrugs. "To be honest with you, I've been in and out."

"How are you feeling?" he asks, and glances at her monitor. It all reads well, and for the most part, aside from her sneezing, she seems to be recovering.

Her smile is bright. "It's just the flu. I'll be fine in a few days." She holds more tissues to her nose, refusing to pull them from her face. Because of this, her voice comes out muffled, a tad nasally, but if it saves her from sneezing on Tyler, then Tyler can take the extra time to decode what she's saying. "So, when can I go home?"

Hands still on her pillow, Tyler glides them down, slow with his gloves on, and pats her arm. "I can't answer that."

"I know," she sighs, shoulders dropping, her smile losing its luster. "I just thought… maybe I just thought I could get out if I asked."

"If not due to our current situation, we would be discharging you today, but you came in around the same time as this  _whole thing_ started. We need to keep you here until we can rule out that you don't have what the other patients had that made them… come back."

She says, "It's just the flu. I feel fine," and sneezes.

Tyler pats her arm again.

"What started this anyway?" One after the other, a tissue makes its home in her nostrils.

Tyler shakes his head. "We're figuring that out. What you need to focus on doing now is resting. If you start to feel even just a tiny bit worse, let us know."

"So, pretty much, you're going to keep me here until I die, right? And then, you'll see if I come back."

When Tyler doesn't provide a quick response, she rolls her eyes, throws her hands in the air, and repeats, "I feel fine."

"Good," Tyler says, and leaves the room. That makes one of them.

*

He craves more soup, but he settles for celery. He shares with a co-worker, a doctor, who is looking a little worse for wear. Every pair of eyes Tyler sees has identical dark circles. Mouths have turned to a permanent frown, and hair is oily and either shoved back in hair ties, headbands, or simple finger slides. The doctor in front of him has the trademark finger grooves in his hair and five o'clock shadow. He chews on the celery, mechanical. Tyler does the very same.

The doctor says, "Did you hear?"

And Tyler says, "Hear what?"

And the doctor plucks another piece of celery from the Tupperware and says, "We may have pinned down Patient Zero."

But the doctor doesn't explain himself further. He scans Tyler and quietly prods, "Are you doing okay? You don't look so hot."

Tyler says, "Oh, yeah, that's great. I was going for mildly warm today anyway." Then, he smiles, and the doctor takes another piece of celery and says, "I would pop into the on-call room and nap for the rest of your break. The night's not over yet."

So, Tyler does. The bed he claims for himself has sheets that stench of disinfectant and a pillow that needs fluffed. He chooses to keep it flat, hugging it close to his body with an arm as he unties his shoes and works them to the floor. They drop, two small thuds, and they squeak when Tyler moves them under the bed with a quick tap of his heel.

Snores fill the room, from other nurses and a doctor or three. Tyler tries to minimize his movements to keep from disturbing his co-workers. They all need to be alert. They all need to be ready.

Josh has sent messages to Tyler throughout Tyler's shift. The first few messages are menial, speaking of how he's done the laundry, changed the bed clothes, and is waiting for Tyler to come home. 

_I can't wait to see you. I can't wait to hug you and know you're safe here with me._

And Josh says,  _I'm too scared to leave the house. I'm scared I'm going to get attacked again, and I won't be as lucky next time._

And Josh says, _Everything is so fucked._

And Josh says,  _Call me when you can._

Tyler tells him,  _in on-call room. supposed to nap. i can call you and listen._

Josh accepts.

"Okay, so—" Josh's voice is low. If Tyler closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Josh is in the bed, too, lying next to him, arms a secure knot to keep them both together. He keeps his voice at that volume, at that whisper. Tyler shivers. Tyler shivers and clings to the pillow.

"I've been watching the news, like,  _religiously_ , and there was just a press conference with your hospital, or, like… like, some of the doctors or whatever from your hospital and… just… Have you heard?"

"Nuh-uh." Tyler closes his eyes. He turns his face into the pillow. He breathes. He breathes.

Josh's voice sounds so far away.

Josh's voice comes out stuttered, through shreds of static, Tyler trying to keep hold of this very sound to only have it slip through his fingers. Tyler feels his fingers shaking. He clings to the pillow tighter, closer.

And Josh's voice, it travels into Tyler's ear and goes out the other.

"Flu," he hears, "a mutated strain of the flu… died and came back within minutes… bites are fatal unless they're amputated in a timely manner… bites are fatal unless they're amputated in a timely manner… flu-like symptoms… ties back to… twenty-one pilots… twenty-one patients… twenty-one people are… dead… please see a doctor… Tyler… bites are fatal unless they're amputated in a timely manner… I love you… I love you… I love you…"

When Tyler sends his love to Josh in return, he speaks to silence.

All is frozen.

Tyler's nose is running, his injured arm is caught between his torso and mattress, and he thinks he might smell blood.

It's an odd odor—not exactly blood, but also not exactly not-blood either.

He twists onto his back and finds himself wincing all the while as he watches his thermal top slowly peel itself away from the bed. This is damp. This smells metallic.

Tyler rises into a sitting position, lightly touches the shirt pulled over his forearm, and wastes little time in jumping from the bed once he finds blood rubbing away onto his fingertips. Though it's light and can only be seen since Tyler was indeed looking for it, he reacts poorly, rash—but at this point, he doesn't know any other way to act.

Stepping into his shoes, not bothering with the laces, Tyler leaves the on-call room and starts down the hallway. His shoelaces drag, but they are the least attentive thing in the building as children scream and doctors and nurses scream with them with sharp objects in their hands. They scream of grief.

Do the other nurses continue to feel remorse or have they learned to shed it?

He's not sure if he truly only slept for the remainder of his break. He didn't consider looking at a clock before venturing outside. The room was full, still full, and the snores covered up the sound of Tyler breathing and struggling to think of what he could do. Going to the bathroom to assess the damage is the most obvious choice. After removing the bandages, what is he to do, then? He can't leave his arm unwrapped, and yet, he will have to leave it unwrapped if the supply closet does not magically have the supplies he needs.

"I'm fucked," Tyler says, under his breath, into his elbow when he coughs, into the collar of his shirt when he sneezes. Oh, God, is he fucked.

The bathroom itself becomes home to Tyler's frenzied rush to see the bite on his forearm. The stalls are empty, doors ajar, and Tyler is thankful for that so he can make as much noise as he can yanking paper towels from their dispenser and flipping on sinks and cursing in his attempt to roll up his thermal top.

With the fabric being black, Tyler can only tell it's been tainted by how damp it appears under the light. Once he rolls it up, he cries. He falls to the floor and cries harder.

His arm is soaked in blood, the bandage ruined. Tyler picks at this until it begins to unravel, and he watches as inch by inch of pure crimson wrappings drop into the trash bin. He watches. He can't look away from the bite marks appearing just as they always have on his arm. A confusing sight, Tyler scrambles off the floor to run his arm underneath running water. The blood washes away easily, the bite marks hissing at this intervention. Backing up, Tyler holds his arm up to the light, and he squints at each of these embedded holes and discovers this is a wound on its way to recovery. He had only lain on it wrong, the pressure aggravating the punctures until it could relieve the pain the only way it knew how.

Tyler pats his arm with a paper towel, continues to allow water to run over the bite. It feels okay now, almost relaxing. When Tyler cries this time, he doesn't feel foolish for doing so.

One of the stall doors creaks. Tyler lifts his head, watching the door move in the mirror. He's squinting again, rising onto his tiptoes to try to see better. He catches no sight of a person leaving the stall or even giving an indication they were occupying the stall. However, Tyler knows if he were to act as if everything is okay since he cannot see anything strange directly, he would be an idiot. He's watched the TV shows, the movies. He's read the books and listened to the songs.

So, he looks down and narrowly misses a set of teeth chomping down on his shoe.

He hops out of the way, colliding with the paper towel dispenser, and he stares at a doctor crawling toward him across the tile flooring. The doctor's gurgling, trying to stand, vomit on their lips and nothing in their eyes. Their hands make a grab for Tyler's shoe again, and Tyler kicks them in the face, up the nose, and he kicks them with such force his shoe flies across the room, and he realizes he should have tied them. He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting a doctor to have died by the toilet to reanimate and desire a feast of his toes.

He wasn't expecting this.

The monster's head jerks at Tyler's shoe, movement and sound diverting its attention. Tyler darts around it on tiptoe. He has never left tiptoe. He moves like a ballet dancer en pointe, but the monster, it smells blood, and it knows the source without needing to look. Its hands reach out again, and Tyler steps once, stomps twice, and he falls onto his ass as the monster's arms pull themselves from Tyler's feet.

It's a mad game of cat and mouse. Scurrying to and fro, the monster and Tyler appear to touch all corners of the bathroom before Tyler blocks himself in by the sinks. His injured arm has left a trail of blood across the floor, marking the spot exactly where Tyler sees himself perishing. Not today, though, not today—he is strong, and with no weapon or sharp object to speak of, Tyler sticks both his hands into the monster's hair and pulls it closer. He yanks, heaves, stands, and he smashes its gray face and gaunt cheeks into the side of a sink.

Arms flailing and screeching, the noises from its voice box deflate with each smack into the porcelain sink. Like an old children's toy, the batteries run dry, and Tyler is left grinding brain matter into a chipped sink corner.

That's how two nurses find him. He's sweating, crying, bleeding. They don't see the blood at first. They force him to let go of the dead doctor's scalp, but Tyler can't, and now he has hair that is not his own nor Josh's weaved between his fingers in the form of makeshift rings. It feels wrong.

The hair washes away with the blood on his hands. One of the nurses goes to alert someone of the mess, and the other dries Tyler's hands and offers him reassuring words.

But when she notices the bite on his forearm, she shoves herself away from him, those reassuring words meaning nothing to who she assumes is a dead man walking.

"No," Tyler tries to say, pointing at his arm. "This was from before. This didn't  _just_  happen."

Even if he hides his arm behind his back, the crowd of people who enter the bathroom realize something in the air has shifted. Instead of a celebratory tone, it has grown somber. His supervisor leads the pack, and when she steps to him to investigate, he sees no other way out, not when her hands are outstretched toward him, palms up, waiting, expecting.

Tyler considers climbing from the nearest window and  _running_. He doesn't know how the world is like out there. He doesn't know if anybody is allowed in or out of the hospital. There may be gates. The government may have stepped in with their guns and riot gear. And the surrounding neighborhoods may be met with the same protection, with the gates and the government and the guns. Would Tyler be able to go home? What if he managed to run off without anybody catching him, and was then met with the fences of quarantine around his neighborhood? It would have been all for nothing. They wouldn't let him in, and the hospital wouldn't allow re-entry. Anybody he saw would glare at his arm because that would be uncovered and bleeding, and maybe, just maybe, someone would come behind him and stick a knife in his head.

He wouldn't be safe. He would sit at those gates and shake those gates and wail past those gates.

If he dies, he dies.

Josh's voice is in his head, telling him, " _You can't run away_."

Silent, Tyler shows his supervisor his arm, the bite, and her hands now hover above his arm as tears scratch at her eyes.

Silent, too, and then she says, "We have to amputate."

Someone grabs Tyler from behind, and someone else grabs hold of his arm. They pull it straight, grip tight around his wrist, and they pull, and he yanks, and they pull more, and he yells, "No, no, you don't understand—this was from before! This didn't just happen!  _This was from before._ "

"When?" she asks him.

"Yesterday," Tyler says.

A pair of nurses are on their knees, raising the pant leg of the dead doctor on the floor to uncover a slapdash dressing on the left ankle.

"Amputation wouldn't work anyway," she decides. "Too much time has passed."

"I got bit,  _yeah_ , but it wasn't by someone who turned. Please. Please, you have to believe me." Tyler's head hurts. He blinks, long, squeezing until he sees shapes. He's shivering. The person holding his arm struggles to keep him still. "The patient you took me to at the start of my shift… he's the one who bit me. He wasn't dead then. He was alive yesterday, and he bit me, so I'm not going to turn. I'm not sick."

"Not sick," a doctor huffs from the doorway.

Regardless of everything beginning to blur around the edges, Tyler catches sight of the scene in the mirror. The doctor was right to scoff; Tyler would have done the very same if he were in a different position.

With the bite on his arm, displayed for all to see with the bathroom door wide open, he looks on his way to joining the dead thing on the floor. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes, snot running down in a waterfall and as pale as pale can be, Tyler doesn't recognize himself. He twitches his fingers just to watch his reflection do the same.

The bite is bleeding again.

Tyler says, "Please. I'm not sick."

And he hears, "Put him in a room," and he closes his eyes.

*

He is in front of a fence that reaches the clouds in the sky and wiggling his fingers through the gaps. Josh is there, on the other side, staring at him and touching his fingers through the gaps. "It'll be okay," Josh says, his mouth and voice not synced up the right way. "You'll be able to go home soon. You'll be able to be with me soon."

Tyler whispers, "I'm not sick," and thinks about eating the skin off Josh's cheek.

The pain in his head is a pain he deserves.

*

He is in front of a fence that reaches the clouds in the sky and wiggling his fingers through the gaps. Josh stands on the same side as him, talking, his mouth and voice out of sync again, both eyes that brilliant brown. He's nodding his head and marching. Tyler holds Josh's hand and lines his steps up with Josh's own.

Josh takes him home. Josh says, "I have that bath ready for you."

*

He is in front of a fence that reaches the clouds in the sky and wiggling his fingers through the gaps. He only has his left arm. Phantom pains shake him until he feels as if he might vomit on his shoes.

He looks for Josh, but Josh isn't here.

*

Tyler opens his eyes to a damp washcloth dragging across his forehead. Done by a delicate hand, the pressure is minimal, almost like a feather along his skin, leaving wet trails behind. It takes a minute or two for Tyler's eyes to adjust to the lighting. He sees blurs, and as it develops into clearer shapes, he wants to close his eyes and disappear into a muted fog again.

Josh is there, standing over him, in possession of that washcloth. Tyler is acutely aware he's stuck in a room all by himself, that several people are watching them in the doorway, and that he is handcuffed to the bed rails.

He doesn't have the energy to put up a fight. He lies there, looking at Josh, trying to make sense of Josh—not that Josh is a confusing person, or that he's ever been particularly confusing. Tyler is dumbfounded at the accessories Josh dons—a mask over his face, goggles, the purple nitrile gloves. He's dressed in white, too, a complete white suit, head to toe in the color. Tyler can't see one spot of Josh's skin, save for his face.

Tyler has no shame in the tears that run down his cheeks.

Josh just wipes them away with the washcloth.

"Josh," Tyler croaks.

"Your fever's starting to go down now." Josh sits on the bed with Tyler. No one at the door makes a move toward them. They watch and act like they aren't watching.

"H-how long…?"

"Maybe a few hours? It felt long. They wouldn't let me see you for a while."

Tyler shakes his head. It's more of a head twitch now. "I'm not sick," he says. "I'm not going to turn. This is a misunderstanding."

Josh touches Tyler's hand.

The bite on Tyler's arm is bandaged. Josh skims his thumb across the edge of the dressing, shrugging a shoulder. "I don't know what's going on, Tyler. I… I mean… they told me you told them that you got bit  _yesterday._ Tyler,  _yesterday_ , you were all… puny. Was it because of this?"

Tyler looks down.

Josh's frown reaches his eyes. "You could have told me. We could have gone to the hospital together and made sure you were okay."

"I am okay."

"No, Tyler, you—" Josh squeezes the washcloth, the excess spilling out on Tyler's forehead. Beads of water flow down the bridge of Tyler's nose. Tyler tilts his head up and attempts to catch some of the droplets with his tongue.

"Tyler," Josh says, "you got bit."

And that's all Josh says.

"You got bit."

He got bit. He got bit.

"I know," Tyler says.

*

Tyler asks Josh, "Are they waiting for me to die, or are they actually giving me medicine?"

"They told me they're giving you fluids and medicine," Josh says, "and then, they made me wear this stupid outfit."

"I think you look cute," Tyler says.

"Thanks."

*

As soon as they are allowed to be alone, just the two of them in the room, Josh removes the white suit and climbs into the bed with Tyler. He's wearing Tyler's yellow hoodie, a pair of sweatpants, and he kicks off his shoes and curls up next to Tyler and keeps on his gloves, goggles, and mask.

When a nurse comes in to check on Tyler, she does not scold Josh. Instead, she smiles. Instead, she says not a word and leaves them be.

Tyler sleeps in peace with Josh's head on his chest.

*

A nurse monitors him every hour on the hour, tracking his temperature, his symptoms, and the bite on his forearm.

After three hours, his supervisor unlocks his handcuffs, and after an additional hour, she returns and lets Tyler know the patient in the same room as the patient he put down earlier in his shift was finally discharged.

"She had the flu and got better. It wasn't  _that_  flu. We suspect you may have contracted the same strain of flu from her, and the bite was just a coincidence."

She pauses. She looks between Tyler and Josh. "We're letting you go home."

Tyler sits up too fast. Josh presses his hand to Tyler's back and curves around to cup Tyler's hip. "Are you serious?" Tyler asks, Josh's thumb tapping his hip over and over and over, upbeat. "I can go home?"

Her hand to Tyler's shoulder, she grins. She nods her head. "You can go home. Clean that wound often, rest, and report back to work whenever you feel up to it. Let us know if your condition worsens; come straight back  _here_. We've managed to quarantine the sick patients to this hospital and this hospital alone. We were as prepared as any hospital could be for this, and if something else like this happens in the future, we'll be even more prepared if that time ever comes."

Sharp, she points at Josh, eyes narrowing to slits. "Before you two go, though, that one is getting a flu shot."

"Gladly," Josh says, and takes off the hoodie.

*

The hospital feels different on their walk out—happier, healthier. There are no screams. There are gurgles, last intakes of breath, but these are sufficiently followed by a swift scalpel slide into the skull.

Josh takes Tyler's hand. "My little bumblebee."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Tyler limps on the way to the car. He only has one shoe.

*

The sun is rising when they come home. They go to bed, drifting to sleep in each other's arms once Tyler changes into clean clothes and washes his face free of any sorrow. They agree to share a bath after their slumber.

"Oh, what a night," Josh sings.

Tears are on Josh's cheeks, which Tyler welcomes as easily as the tears on his own. He presses his cheek to Josh's, wet against wet, and he buries his face in Josh's neck and holds Josh's body close to his as Josh begins to shiver.

They sleep. They sleep for hours.

Tyler isn't in pain.

Tyler wakes to Josh coughing.


End file.
